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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by J.B.
LIPPINCOTT & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington.
LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE
OF
_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.
DECEMBER, 1880.
AN HISTORICAL ROCKY-MOUNTAIN OUTPOST.
[Illustration: GOING TO THE JUDGE'S.]
The day might have graced the month of June, so balmy was the air, so
warmly shone the sun from a cloudless sky. But the snow-covered
mountain-range whose base we were skirting, the leafless cottonwoods
fringing the Fontaine qui Bouille and the sombre plains that stretched
away to the eastern horizon told a different story. It was on one of
those days elsewhere so rare, but so common in Colorado, when a summer
sky smiles upon a wintry landscape, that we entered a town in whose
history are to be found greater contrasts than even those afforded by
earth and sky. Today Pueblo is a thriving and aggressive city, peopled
with its quota of that great pioneer army which is carrying civilization
over the length and breadth of our land. Three hundred and forty years
ago, as legend hath it, Coronado here stopped his northward march, and
on the spot where Pueblo now stands established the farthermost outpost
of New Spain.
The average traveller who journeys westward from the Missouri River
imagines that he is coming to a new country. "The New West" is a
favorite term with the agents of land--companies and the writers of
alluring railway-guides. These enterprising advocates sometimes indulge
in flights of rhetoric that scorn the trammels of grammar and
dictionary. Witness the following impassioned utterances concerning the
lands of a certain Western railroad: "They comprise a section of country
whose possibilities are simply _infinitesimal_, and whose developments
will be revealed in glorious realization through the horoscope of the
near future." This verbal architect builded wiser than he knew, for what
more fitting word could the imagination suggest wherewith to crown the
possibilities of alkali wastes and barren, sun-scorched plains?
A considerable part of the New West of to-day was explored by the
Spaniards more than three centuries ago. Before the English had landed
at Plymouth Rock or made a settlement at Jamestown they had penetrated
to the Rocky Mountains and given to peak and river their characteristic
names. Southern Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona have been the theatres
wherein were enacted deeds of daring and bravery perhaps unsurpassed by
any people and any age; and that, too, centuries before they became a
part of our American Union. The whole country is strewn over with the
ruins of a civilization in comparison with which our own of to-day seems
feeble. And he who journeys across the Plains till he reaches the Sangre
del Cristo Mountains or the blue Sierra Mojadas enters a land made
famous by the exploits of Coronado, De Vaca and perhaps of the great
Montezuma himself.
In the year 1540, Francisco Vasquez de Coronado was sent by the Spanish
viceroy of Mexico to explore the regions to the north. Those
mountain-peaks, dim and shadowy in the distance and seeming to recede as
they were approached, had ever been an alluring sight to the
gold-seeking Spaniards. But the coveted treasure did not reveal itself
to their cursory search; and though they doubtless pushed as far north
as the Arkansas River, they returned to the capital from what they
considered an unsuccessful expedition. The way was opened, however, and
in 1595 the Spaniards came to what is now the Territory of New Mexico
and founded the city of Santa Fé. They had found, for the most part, a
settled country, the inhabitants living in densely-populated villages,
or _pueblos_, and evincing a rather high degree of civilization. Their
dwellings of mud bricks, or _adobes_, were all built upon a single plan,
and consisted of a square or rectangular fort-like structure enclosing
an open space. Herds of sheep and goats grazed upon the hillsides, while
the bottom-lands were planted with corn and barley. Thus lived and
flourished the Pueblo Indians, a race the origin of which lies in
obscurity, but connected with which are many legends of absorbing
interest. All their traditions point to Montezuma as the founder and
leader of their race, and likewise to their descent from the Aztecs. But
their glory departed with the coming of Cortez, and their Spanish
conquerors treated them as an inferior race. Revolting against their
oppressors in 1680, they were reconquered thirteen years later, though
subsequently allowed greater liberty. By the treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo
in 1848 they became citizens of the United States. From one extreme of
government to another has drifted this remnant of a stately race, till
now at last it finds itself safely sheltered in the arms of our great
republic.
Such is the romantic history of a portion of our so-called "New West;"
but it was with a view of ascertaining some facts concerning occurrences
of more recent date, as well as of seeing some of the actors therein,
that we paid a visit to Pueblo. We found it a rather odd mixture of the
old and the new, the adobe and the "dug-out" looking across the street
upon the imposing structure of brick or the often gaudily-painted frame
cottage. It looked as though it might have been indulging in a Rip Van
Winkle sleep, except that the duration might have been a century or two.
High _mesas_ with gracefully rounded and convoluted sides almost
entirely surround it, and rising above their floor-like tops, and in
fine contrast with their sombre brown tints, appear the blue outlines of
the distant mountains. Pike's Peak, fifty miles to the north, and the
Spanish Peaks, the Wawatoyas, ninety to the south, are sublime objects
of which the eye never grows weary; while the Sierra Mojadas bank up the
western horizon with a frowning mountain-wall. A notch in the distant
range, forty miles to the north-west, indicates the place where the
Arkansas River breaks through the barriers that would impede its seaward
course, forming perhaps the grandest cañon to be found in all this
mighty mountain-wilderness. Truly a striking picture was that on which
Coronado and his mail-clad warriors gazed.
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF PUEBLO, COLORADO, LOOKING
NORTH-WEST--PIKE'S PEAK IN THE DISTANCE.]
A motley throng compose the inhabitants of Pueblo. The dark-hued
Mexican, his round face shaded by the inevitable _sombrero_, figures
conspicuously. But if you value his favor and your future peace of mind
have a care how you allude to his nationality. He is a Spaniard, you
should know--a pure Castilian whose ancestor was some old hidalgo with
as long an array of names and titles as has the Czar of All the Russias
himself. Though he now lives in a forsaken-looking adobe hut with dirt
floor and roof of sticks and turf that serves only to defile the
raindrops that trickle through its many gaps--though his sallow wife
and ill-favored children huddle round him or cook the scanty meal upon
the mud oven in a corner of the room--he is yet a Spaniard, and glories
in it. The tall, raw-boned man, straight as a young cottonwood, whose
long black hair floats out from beneath his hat as he rides into town
from his ranch down the river, may be a half-breed who has figured in a
score of Indian fights, and enjoys the proud distinction of having
killed his man. There is the hungry-looking prospector, waiting with
ill-disguised impatience till he can "cross the Range" and follow again,
as he has done year after year, the exciting chase after the
ever-receding mirage--the visions of fabulous wealth always going to be,
but never quite, attained. The time-honored symbol of Hope must, we
think, give place to a more forcible representation furnished by the
peculiar genius of our times; for is not our modern Rocky-Mountain
prospector the complete embodiment of that sublime grace? His is a hope
that even reverses the proverb, for no amount of deferring is able to
make him heartsick, but rather seems to spur him on to more earnest
endeavor. Has he toiled the summer long, endured every privation,
encountered inconceivable perils, only to find himself at its close
poorer than when he began? Reluctantly he leaves the mountain-side where
the drifting snows have begun to gather, but seemingly as light-hearted
as when he came, for his unshaken hope bridges the winter and feeds upon
the limitless possibilities of the future. Full of wonderful stories are
these same hope-sustained prospectors--tales that are bright with the
glitter of silver and gold. Not a single one of them who has not
discovered "leads" of wonderful richness or "placers" where the sands
were yellow with gold; but by some mischance the prize always slipped
out of his grasp, and left him poor in all but hope. And in truth so
fascinating becomes the occupation that men who in other respects seem
cool and phlegmatic will desert an almost assured success to join the
horde rushing toward some unexplored district, impelled by the
ever-flying rumors of untold wealth just brought to light. The golden
goal this season is the great Gunnison Country; and soon trains of
_burros_, packed with pick and shovel, tent and provisions, will be
climbing the Range.
Pueblo has likewise its business-men, its men of to-day, who manage its
banks, who buy and sell and get gain as they might do in any
well-ordered city, though, truth to tell, there are very few of them who
do not sooner or later catch the prevailing infection--a part of whose
assets is not represented by some "prospect" away up in the mountains or
frisking about the Plains in herds of cattle and sheep. But perhaps the
most curiously-original character in all the town is Judge Allen A.
Bradford, of whose wonderful memory the following good story is told:
Years ago he, with a party of officers, was at the house of Colonel
Boone, down the river. While engaged in playing "pitch-trump," of which
the judge was very fond--and in fact the only game of cards with which
he was acquainted--a messenger rushed in announcing that a lady had
fallen from her horse and was doubtless much injured. The players left
their cards and ran to render assistance, and the game thus broken up
was not resumed. Some two years later the same parties found themselves
together again, and "pitch-trump" was proposed. To the astonishment of
all, the judge informed them how the score stood when they had so
hurriedly left the game, and with the utmost gravity insisted that it be
continued from that point!
On a bright sunny morning we sought out the judge's office, only to
learn that he had not yet for the day exchanged the pleasures of rural
life across the Fontaine for less romantic devotions at the shrine of
the stern goddess. Later we were informed, upon what seemed credible
authority, that upon the morning in question he was intending to sow
oats. Though cold March still claimed the calendar, and hence such
action on the part of the judge might seem like forcing the season, yet
reflections upon his advanced years caused us to suppress the rising
thought that perhaps some allusions to _wild_ oats might have been
intended. Hence we looked forward to a rare treat--judicial dignity
unbending itself in pastoral pursuits, as in the case of some Roman
magistrate. "A little better'n a mile" was the answer to our
interrogatory as to how far the judge's ranch might be from town; but
having upon many former occasions taken the dimensions of a Colorado
mile, we declined the suggestion to walk and sought some mode of
conveyance. There chanced to be one right at hand, standing patiently by
the wayside and presided over by an ancient colored gentleman. The coach
had been a fine one in its day, but that was long since past, and now
its dashboard, bent out at an angle of forty-five degrees, the faded
trimmings and the rusty, stately occupant of the box formed a complete
and harmonious picture of past grandeur seldom seen in the Far West. Two
dubious-looking bronchos, a bay and a white, completed this unique
equipage, in which we climbed the _mesa_ and then descended into the
valley of the Fontaine. The sable driver was disposed to be
communicative, and ventured various opinions upon current topics. He had
been through the war, and came West fourteen years ago.
"You have had quite an adventurous life," we remarked.
"Why, sah," he returned, "if the history ob my life was wrote up it
would be wuth ten thousand dollars."
While regarding the valuation as somewhat high, we yet regretted our
inability to profit by this unexpected though promising
business-opportunity, and soon our attention was diverted by a glimpse
of the judge's adobe, and that person himself standing by his carriage
and awaiting our by no means rapid approach. He was about to go to town,
and the oats were being sown by an individual of the same nationality as
our driver, to whom the latter addressed such encouraging remarks as
"Git right 'long dere now and sow dat oats. Don't stand roostin' on de
fence all day, like as you had the consumshing. You look powerful weak.
Guess mebbe I'd better come over dere and show you how."
[Illustration: THE JUDGE.]
Judge Bradford's career has been a chequered one, and it has fallen to
his lot to dispense justice in places and under circumstances as
various as could well be imagined. Born in Maine in 1815, he has lived
successively in Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska and Colorado, and held almost
every position open to the profession of the law. From the supreme
bench of Colorado he was twice called to represent the Territory as
delegate to Congress. In 1852, when he was judge of the Sixth Judicial
District of Iowa, his eccentricities of character seem to have reached
their full development. He exhibited that supreme disregard for dress
and the various social amenities which not infrequently betray the
superior mind. Never were his clothes known to fit, being invariably
too large or too small, too short or too long. As to his hair, the
external evidences were of a character to disprove the rumor that he
had a brush and comb, while the stubby beard frequently remained
undisturbed upon the judicial chin for several weeks at a time. The
atrocious story is even told that once upon a time, when half shaven,
he chanced to pick up a newspaper, became absorbed in its contents,
forgot to complete his task, and went to court in this most absurdly
unsymmetrical condition. But, despite these personal eccentricities, a
more honest or capable judge has rarely been called upon to vindicate
the majesty of the law. Upon the bench none could detect a flaw in his
assumption of that dignity so intimately associated in all minds with
the judiciary, but, the ermine once laid aside for the day, he was as
jolly and mirthful as any of his frontier companions. Judge Bradford
was no advocate, but by the action of a phenomenal memory his large
head was stored so full of law as to emphasize, to those who knew him,
the curious disproportion between its size and that of his legs and
feet. These latter were of such peculiarly modest dimensions as to call
to mind Goldsmith's well-known lines, though in this case we must, of
necessity, picture admiring frontiersmen standing round while
Still the wonder grew
That two small feet could carry all he knew.
The judge's mind is of the encyclopædical type, and facts and dates are
his especial "strong holt." But his countenance fails to ratify the
inward structure when, pausing from a recital, he gazes upon your
reception of the knowledge conveyed with a kindly smile--a most innocent
smile that acts as a strong disposer to belief. Whether it has been a
simple tale of the early days enlivened with recollections of
pitch-trump and other social joys, or whether the performances of savage
Indians and treacherous half-breeds send a chill through the listener,
it is all the same: at its close the judge's amiable features wear the
same belief-compelling smile. Under its influence we sit for hours while
our entertainer ranges through the stores of his memory, pulling out
much that is dust-covered and ancient, but quickly renovated for our use
by his ready imagination and occasional wit. With a feeling akin to
reverence we listen--a reverence due to one who had turned his face
toward the Rocky Mountains before Colorado had a name, who had made the
perilous journey across the great Plains behind a bull-team, and who
has since been associated with everything concerned in the welfare and
progress of what has now become this great Centennial State, toward
which all eyes are turning. Not without its dark days to him has passed
this pioneer life, and none were more filled with discouragement than
those during which he represented the Territory in Congress. He
describes the position as one of peculiar difficulty--on one hand the
clamors of a people for aid and recognition in their rapid development
of the country, while on the other, to meet them, he found himself a
mere beggar at the doors of Congressional mercy and grace, voteless and
hence powerless. Truly, in the light of his experience, the office of
Territorial delegate is no sinecure.
No one has more closely observed the course of events in the Far West
than Judge Bradford, and his opinions on some disputed points are very
decided and equally clear. Many have wondered that Pueblo, which had the
advantage of first settlement, had long been a rendezvous of trappers
and frontier traders, and lay upon the only road to the then so-called
Pike's Peak mines, that _viâ_ the Arkansas Cañon--that this outpost,
situated thus at the very gateway of the Far West, should have remained
comparatively unimportant, while Denver grew with such astonishing
rapidity. But, in the judge's opinion, it was the war of the rebellion
that turned the scale in favor of the Queen City. The first emigrants
had come through Missouri and up the Arkansas, their natural route, and
as naturally conducting to Pueblo. But when Missouri and South-eastern
Kansas became the scenes of guerrilla warfare the emigrant who would
safely convey himself and family across the prairies must seek a more
northern parallel. Hence, Pueblo received a check from which it is only
now recovering, and Denver an impetus whose ultimate limits no man can
foresee.
Many strange things were done in the olden time. When the Plains Indians
had gathered together their forces for the purpose of persistently
harassing the settlement, the Mountain Utes, then the allies of the
whites, offered their services to help repel the common enemy. Petitions
went up to the governor and Legislature to accept the proffered
services, but they were steadily refused. Our long-headed judge gives
the reason: The administration was under the control of men who were
feeding Uncle Sam's troops with corn at thirteen cents per pound, and
other staples in proportion, and the Indian volunteers promised a too
speedy ending of such a profitable warfare.
Thus eventfully has passed the life of Judge Bradford. During his
threescore-and-five years he has moved almost across a continent, never
content unless he was on the frontier. Long may he live to ride in his
light coverless wagon in the smile of bright Colorado sunshine, honored
by all who know him, and affording his friends the enjoyment of his rare
good presence!
[Illustration: OLD ADOBE FORT.]
Thirty years ago this whole Rocky-Mountain region, now appropriated by
an enterprising and progressive people, contained, besides the native
Indians and the Mexicans in the south, only a few trappers and frontier
traders, most of them in the employ of the American Fur Company. These
were the fearless and intrepid pioneers who so far from fleeing danger
seemed rather to court it. Accounts of their adventures--now a struggle
with a wounded bear, again the threatened perils of starvation when lost
in some mountain-fastness--have long simultaneously terrified and
fascinated both young and old. We all have pictured their dress--the
coat or cloak, often an odd combination of several varieties of skins
pieced together, with fur side in; breeches sometimes of the same
material, but oftener of coarse duck or corduroy; and the slouched hat,
under whose broad brim whatever of the face that was not concealed by a
shaggy, unkempt beard shone out red from exposure to sun and weather.
The American Fur Company had dotted the country with forts, which served
the double purpose of storehouses for the valuables collected and of
places where the employés could barricade themselves against the
too-often troublesome savages. For such a purpose, though not actually
by the Fur Company, was built the old adobe fort the ruins of which are
still to be seen on the banks of the Arkansas at Pueblo. How old it may
have been no one seems to know, but certain it is that for long years,
and in the earliest times, it was a favorite rendezvous. Here was
always to be found a jolly good party to pass away the long winter
evenings with song and story. Here Kit Carson often stopped to rest from
his many perilous expeditions, enjoying, together with Fremont and other
noted Rocky-Mountain explorers, the hospitalities of the old fort. Many
times were its soft walls indented by the arrows of besieging Indians,
but its bloodiest tragedy was enacted in 1854, when the Utes surprised
the sleeping company and savagely massacred all.
While these events were transpiring at the old fort a party of Mexicans
had journeyed from the south, crossed the Arkansas River and formed a
settlement on the east side of the Fontaine. A characteristically
squalid and miserable place it was, with the dwellings--they scarce
deserved the name of houses--built in the side of the bluffs very much
as animals might burrow in the ground. Part dug-out and part adobe were
those wretched habitations, and the shed-like parts which projected from
the hill were composed of all conceivable and inconceivable kinds of
rubbish. Sticks, stones, bits of old iron, worn-out mattings and
gunny-sacks entered more or less into the construction of these dens,
all stuck together with the inevitable adobe mud. The settlement
extended some distance along the side of the bluff, and the sloping
plain in front was dignified as the _plaza_. Perhaps the dark-hued
immigrants expected a large town to spring from these unpromising
beginnings, and their plaza to take on eventually all the importance
which a place so named ever deserves in the Spanish and Mexican mind.
But the Pike's Peak excitement, originating in 1852 with the finding of
gold by a party of Cherokee Indians, and reaching its culmination in
1859, brought a far different class of people to our Rocky-Mountain
outpost, and a civilization was inaugurated which speedily compelled the
ancient Mexican methods to go by the board. Thus, Fontaine was soon
absorbed by the rising town of Pueblo, though the ancient dug-outs still
picturesquely dot the hillside, inhabited by much the same idle and
vagabond class from which the prosperous ranchman soon learns to guard
his hen-roost.
The growth of any of our Far Western towns presents a curious study. In
these latter days it frequently requires but a few months, or even
weeks, to give some new one a fair start upon its prosperous way.
Sometimes a mineral vein, sometimes the temporary "end of the track" of
a lengthening railway, forms the nucleus, and around it are first seen
the tents of the advance-guard. Before many weeks have elapsed some
enterprising individual has succeeded, in the face of infinite toil and
expense, in bringing a sawmill into camp. Soon it is buzzing away on the
neighboring hillside, and the rough pine boards and slabs are growing
into houses of all curious sizes and shapes, irregularly lining the main
street. Delightfully free from conventionality are matters in these new
towns. Former notions of things go for naught. Values are in a
highly-disturbed state, and you will probably be charged more for the
privilege of sleeping somewhere on the floor than for all the refined
elegancies of the Fifth Avenue. The board-walks along the street, where
they exist at all, plainly typify this absence of a well-defined dead
level or zero-point in the popular sentiment; for the various sections
are built each upon the same eccentric plan that obtains in the
corresponding house. The result is an irregular succession of steps
equally irregular, with enough literal jumping-off places to relieve any
possible monotony attending the promenade. If the growth of the town
seems to continue satisfactory, its houses--at least those in or near
its central portions--begin gradually to pass through the next stage in
their development. During this interesting period, which might be called
their chrysalid state, they are twisted and turned, sometimes sawn
asunder, parts lopped off here and applied elsewhere, and all those
radical changes made which would utterly destroy anything possessed of
protean possibilities inferior to those of the common Western frame
house. But, as a final result of this treatment and some small additions
of new material, at last emerges the shapely and often artistic
cottage, resplendent in paint, and bearing small resemblance to the
slab-built barn which forms its framework. If the sometime camp becomes
a city--if Auraria grows into a Denver and Fontaine develops into
Pueblo--the frame houses will sooner or later share a common fate, that
of being mounted on wheels or rollers for a journey suburbward, to make
room for the substantial blocks of brick or stone. By this curious
process of evolution do most of our Western towns rapidly acquire more
or less of a metropolitan appearance.
[Illustration: MEXICAN INTERIOR.]
Pueblo, while not a representative Western town in these respects, yet
in its early days presented some curious combinations, most of them
growing out of the heterogeneous human mixture that attempted to form a
settlement. The famous Green-Russell party, on its way from Georgia to
the Pike's Peak country, had passed through Missouri and Kansas in 1858,
and there found an element ripe for any daring and adventurous deeds in
unknown lands. Many of the border desperadoes, then engaged in that
hard-fought prelude to the civil war, found it desirable and expedient
to leave a place where their violent deeds became too well known; and
these, together with others who hoped to find in a new country relief
from the anarchy which reigned at home, fell into the wake of the
pioneers. Pueblo received its full share of Kansas outlaws about this
time, and, what with those it already contained, even a modicum of peace
seemed out of the question. Here, for instance, was found living with
the Mexicans by the plaza a quarrelsome fellow named Juan Trujillo,
better known by the sobriquet of Juan Chiquito or "Little John," which
his diminutive stature had earned for him. This worthy is represented as
a constant disturber of the peace, and he met the tragic fate which his
reckless life had invited. From being a trusted friend he had incurred
the enmitv of a noted character named Charley Antobees, than whom,
perhaps, no one has had a more varied frontier experience. Coming to the
Rocky Mountains in 1836 in the employ of the American Fur Company, he
has since served as hunter, trapper, Indian-fighter, guide to several
United States exploring expeditions, and spy in the Mexican war as well
as in the war of the rebellion. Antobees still lives on the outskirts of
Pueblo, and his scarred and bronzed face, framed by flowing locks of
jet-black hair, is familiar to all. The frame that has endured so much
is now bent, and health is at last broken, and about a year since an
effort was made by Judge Bradford and others to secure him a pension.
But twenty years back he was in his full vigor and able to maintain his
own against all odds. Whether or not it is true we cannot say, but
certain it is that he is credited with causing the death of Juan
Chiquito. An Indian called "Chickey" actually did the deed, lying in
ambush for his victim. Perhaps few were sorry at the Mexican's sudden
taking off, and in a country where Judge Lynch alone executes the laws
the whole transaction was no doubt regarded as eminently proper.
Among those who came to Pueblo with the influx of 1858 were two brothers
from Ohio, Josiah and Stephen Smith. Stalwart young men were these, of a
different type from the Kansans and Missourians, yet not of the sort to
be imposed upon. They were crack rifle-shots, and even then held decided
opinions on the Indian question--opinions which subsequent experiences
have served to emphasize, but not change. And what with constant
troubles with the savages, as well as with the scarcely less intractable
Kansans, their first years in the Far West could not be called
altogether pleasant. Many a time have their lives been in danger from
bands of outlaw immigrants, who, dissatisfied with not finding gold
lying about as they had expected, sought to revenge themselves upon the
settlers, whom they considered in fault for having led the way. Their
personal bravery went far toward bringing to a close this reign of
terror and transforming the lawless settlement into a permanent and
prosperous town. Still in the prime of life, they look back with
pleasure over their most hazardous experiences, for time has softened
the dangers and cast over them the glow of romance. And while none are
more familiar with everything concerning the early history of Pueblo, it
is equally true that none are more ready to gratify an appreciative
listener, and the writer is indebted for much that follows to their
inimitable recitals.
About the first work of any note undertaken in connection with the new
town was the building of a bridge across the Arkansas. This was
accomplished in 1860, when a charter was obtained from Kansas and a
structure of six spans thrown across the river. It was a toll-bridge,
and every crossing team put at least one dollar into the pockets of its
owners. But trouble soon overtook the management. While one of the
proprietors was in New Mexico, building a mill for Maxwell upon his
famous estate, the other was so unfortunate as to kill three men, and
was obliged, as Steph Smith felicitously expressed it, to "skip out."
Thus the bridge passed into other hands, where it remained till it was
partly washed away in 1863. The following little matter of history
connected with its palmy days will be best given in the narrator's own
words: "We had a blacksmith who misused his wife. The citizens took him
down to the bridge, tied a rope around his body and threw him into the
river. They kept up their lick until they nearly drowned the poor cuss,
then whispered to him to be good to his wife or his time would be short.
He took the hint, used his wife well, and everything was lovely. That
was the first cold-water cure in Pueblo, and I ain't sure but the last."
This incident serves to illustrate the inherent character of American
gallantry, for, however wild or in most respects uncivilized men may
appear to become under the influence of frontier life, instances are
rare in which women are not treated with all the honor and respect due
them. Indeed, I have sometimes thought that the general sentiment
concerning woman is more refined and reverential among the bronzed
pioneers at the outposts than under the influence of a higher
civilization.
The Arkansas, ever changing its winding course after the manner of
prairie-rivers, has long since shifted its bed some distance to the
south, leaving only a portion of the old bridge to span what in high
water becomes an arm of the river, but which ordinarily serves to convey
the water from a neighboring mill. We lean upon its guard-rail while
fancy is busy with the past. We picture the prairie-schooners winding
around the mesas and through the gap: soon they have come to the grove
by the river-bank; the horses are picketed and the camp-fire is blazing;
brown children play in the sand while their parents lie stretched out in
the shadow of the wagons. They left civilization on the banks of the
Missouri more than a month ago, and their eyes are still turned toward
those grand old mountain-ranges in the west over which the declining sun
is now pouring its transfiguring sheen. The brightness dazzles the eyes,
and the Mexican who rides by on a scarce manageable broncho with nose
high in air might be old Juan Chiquito bent upon some murderous errand.
But no: the rider has stopped the animal, and is soliciting the peaceful
offices of a blacksmith, whose curious little shop, bearing the
suggestive name of "Ute," is seen near the bridge. Here bronchos, mules
and burros are fitted with massive shoes by this frontier Vulcan and
sent rejoicing upon their winding and rocky ways. Our sleepy gaze
follows along Santa Fé Avenue, and the eye sees little that is
suggestive of a modern Western town. But soon comes noisily along a
one-horse street-car, which asserts its just claims to popular notice in
consequence of its composing a full half of a system scarce a fortnight
old by filling the air with direful screeches as each curve is
laboriously described. And later, when the magnificent overland train,
twenty-six hours from Kansas City, steams proudly up to the station,
fancy can no longer be indulged. The old has become new. The great
Plains have been bridged, and the outposts of but a decade ago become
the suburbs of to-day.
[Illustration: OLD BRIDGE.]
Doubtless Old Si Smith now and then indulges in reveries somewhat
similar, but his retrospections would be of a minute and personal
character. To warm up the average frontiersman, however--and Old Si is
no exception--into a style at once luminous and emphatic and embellished
with all the richness of the border dialect, it is only necessary to
suggest the Indian topic. However phlegmatically he may reel off his
yarns, glowing though they be with exciting adventure, it is the
red-skins that cause his eyes to flash and his rhetoric to become fervid
and impressive. To him the Indian is the embodiment of all that is
supremely vile, and hence merits his unmitigated hatred. Killing
Indians is his most delightful occupation, and the next in order is
talking about it. His contempt for government methods is unbounded, and
the popular Eastern sentiment he holds in almost equal esteem. The Smith
brothers have had a varied experience in frontier affairs, in which the
Indian has played a prominent part. They hold the Western views, but
with less prejudice than is generally found. They argue the case with a
degree of fairness, and many of their opinions and deductions are novel
and equally just. Said Stephen Smith to the writer: "We've got this
thing reduced right down to vulgar fractions, and the Utes have got to
go. The mineral lands are worth more to us than the Indians are"--this
with a suggestive shrug--"and if the government don't remove them from
the reserves, why, we'll have to do it ourselves. There's a great fuss
been made about the whites going on the Indian reserves; and what did it
all amount to? Maybe fifty or sixty prospectors, all told, have got over
the lines, dug a few holes and hurt nobody. But I suppose the Indians
always stay where they ought to! I guess not. Some of them are off their
reserves half the time, and they go off to murder and kill. Do they ever
get punished for that? Not much, except when folks do it on their own
account. But let a white man get found on the Indian reserves and
there's a great howl. I want a rule that will work both ways, and I
don't give much for a government that isn't able to protect me on the
Indian reserves the same as anywhere else. Some years ago Indian
troubles were reported at Washington, and Sherman was sent out to
investigate. Of course they heard he was coming, and all were on their
good behavior. They knew where their blankets and ponies and provisions
came from. Consequently, Sherman reported everything peaceful: he hadn't
seen anybody killed. That's about the kind of information they get in
the East on the Indian question.
"Misused? Yes, the Indians have been misused, badly misused. I know
that. But who have _they_ misused? This whole country is covered with
ruins, and they all go to show that it has been inhabited by a
highly-civilized race of people. And what has become of them? I believe
the Indians cleaned them out long years ago; and now their turn has
come. I find it's a law of Nature"--and here the narrator's tone grew
more reverent as if touching upon a higher theme--"that the weak go to
the wall. It's a hard law, but I don't see any way out of it. The old
Aztecs had to go under, and the Indians will have to follow suit."
Whatever humanitarians and archæologists may conclude concerning these
opinions, they are nevertheless extensively held in the Far West. The
frontiersman, who sees the Indian only in his native savagery, who has
found it necessary to employ a considerable part of his time in keeping
out of range of poisoned arrows, and who must needs be always upon the
alert lest his family fall a prey to Indian treachery, cannot be
expected to hold any ultra-humanitarian views upon the subject. He has
not been brought in contact with the several partially-civilized tribes,
in whose advancement many see possibilities for the whole race. He
cannot understand why the government allows the Indians to roam over
enormous tracts of land, rich in minerals they will never extract and
containing agricultural possibilities they will never seek to realize.
His plan would be to have only the same governmental care exercised over
the red man as is now enjoyed by the white, and then look to the law of
the survival of the fittest to furnish a solution of the problem. The
case seems so clear and the arguments so potent that he looks for some
outside reasons for their failure, and very naturally thinks he
discovers them in governmental quarters. "There's too many people living
off this Indian business for it to be wound up yet a while." Thus does a
representative man at the outposts express the sentiment of no
inconsiderable class.
Next to the Indian himself, the frontiersman holds in slight esteem the
soldiers who are sent for the protection of the border. The objects of
his supreme hatred still often merit his good opinion for their bravery
and fighting qualities, but upon raw Eastern recruits and West-Point
fledglings he looks with mild disdain. Having learned the Indian methods
by many hard knocks, he doubtless fails to exercise proper charity
toward those whose experiences have been less extended; and added to
this may be a lurking jealousy--which, however, would be stoutly
disclaimed--because the blue uniform is gaining honors and experience
more easily and under conditions more favorable than were possible with
him in the early days. "They be about the greenest set!" said an old
Indian-fighter to whom this subject was broached, "and the sight of an
Injun jest about scares 'em to death at first. I never saw any of 'em
_I_ was afraid of if I only had any sort of a show. Why, back in '59 I
undertook to take a young man back to the States, and we started off in
a buggy--a _buggy_, do you mind. When we got down the Arkansas a piece
we heard the red-skins was pretty thick, but we went right on, except
keeping more of a lookout, you know. But along in the afternoon we saw
fifteen or twenty coming for us, and we got ready to give 'em a
reception. We had a hard chase, but at last they got pretty sick of
the way I handled my rifle, and concluded to let us alone for a while.
They kept watch of us, though, and meant to get square with us that
night. Well, we travelled till dark, stopped just long enough to build
a big fire, and then lit out. When those Injuns came for us that night
we were some other place, and they lost their grip on that little
scalping-bee. They didn't trouble us any more, that's sure. And when we
got to the next post there were nigh a hundred teams, six stages and
two companies of soldiers, all shivering for fear of the Injuns. It
rather took the wind out of 'em to see us come in with that buggy, and
they didn't want to believe we had come through. But, like the man's
mother-in-law, we were _there_, and they couldn't get out of it. And,
sir, maybe you won't believe me, but those soldiers offered me
_seventy-five dollars_ to go back with them! That's the sort of an
outfit the government sends to protect us!"
[Illustration: SANTA FÉ AVENUE, PUEBLO, COLORADO.]
We have had frequent occasion since our frontier experiences began to
ponder the untrammelled opulence of this Western word, _outfit_. From
the Mississippi to the Pacific its expansive possibilities are
momentarily being tested. There is nothing that lives, breathes or
grows, nothing known to the arts or investigated by the
sciences--nothing, in short, coming within the range of the Western
perception--that cannot with more or less appropriateness be termed an
"outfit." A dismal broncho turned adrift in mid-winter to browse on the
short stubble of the Plains is an "outfit," and so likewise is the
dashing equipage that includes a shining phaeton and richly-caparisoned
span. Perhaps by no single method can so comprehensive an idea of the
term in question be obtained in a short time, and the proper qualifying
adjectives correctly determined, as by simply preparing for a
camping-expedition. The horse-trader with whom you have negotiated for a
pair of horses or mules congratulates you upon the acquisition of a
"boss outfit." When your wagon has been purchased and the mules are duly
harnessed in place, you are further induced to believe that you have a
"way-up outfit," though, obviously, this should now be understood to
possess a dual significance which did not before obtain, since the wagon
represents a component part. The hardware clerk displays a tent and
recommends a fly as forming a desirable addition to an even otherwise
"swell outfit." The grocer provides you with what he modestly terms a
"first-class outfit," albeit his cans of fruits, vegetables and meats
are for the delectation of the inner man. Frying-pans and dutch-ovens,
camp-stools and trout-scales, receive the same designation. And now
comes the crowning triumph of this versatile term, as well as a happy
illustration of what might be called its agglutinative and assimilating
powers; for when horses and wagon have received their load of tent and
equipments, and father, mother and the babies have filled up every
available space, this whole establishment, this _omnium gatherum_ of
outfits, becomes neither more nor less than an "outfit."
The last five years have witnessed a wonderful material progress in the
Far West. The mineral wealth discovered in Colorado and New Mexico has
caused a great westward-flowing tide to set in. The nation seems to be
possessed of a desire to reclaim the waste places and to explore the
unknown. Cities that were founded by "fifty-niners," and after a decade
seemed to reach the limits of their growth, have started on a new
career. And for none of these does the outlook seem brighter than in the
case of the city of Pueblo, the old outpost whose early history we have
attempted to sketch. Its growth has all along been a gradual one, and
its improvements have kept pace with this healthy advance. Its public
schools, like those of all Far Western towns which the writer has
visited are model institutions and an honor to the commonwealth. A
handsome brick court-house, situated on high ground, is an ornament to
the city, and differs widely from that in which Judge Bradford held
court eighteen years ago--the first held in the Territory, and that,
too, under military protection. Pueblo's wealth is largely derived from
the stock-raising business, the surrounding country being well adapted
to cattle and sheep. The _rancheros_ ride the Plains the year round, and
the cattle flourish upon the food which Nature provides--in the summer
the fresh grass, and in the winter the same converted into hay which has
been cured upon the ground. An important railway-centre is Pueblo, and
iron highways radiate from it to the four cardinal points. These
advantages of location should procure it a large share of the flood of
prosperity that is sweeping over the State. But enterprises are now in
progress which cannot fail to add materially to its importance as a
factor in the development of the country. On the highest lift of the
mesa south of the town, and in a most commanding position, it has been
decided to locate a blast-furnace which shall have no neighbor within a
radius of five hundred miles. With iron ore of finest quality easily
accessible in the neighboring mountains, and coal-fields of unlimited
extent likewise within easy reach, the production of iron in the Rocky
Mountains has only waited for the growth of a demand. This the
advancement and prosperity of the State have now well assured. Many
kindred industries will spring up around the furnace, the Bessemer
steel-works and the rail-mills that are now projected; and a few years
will suffice to transform the level mesa, upon which for untold
centuries the cactus and the yucca-lily have bloomed undisturbed, into a
thriving manufacturing city whose pulse shall be the throb of steam
through iron arms. The onlooking mountains, that have seen strange
sights about this old outpost, are to see a still stranger--the
ushering-in of a new civilization which now begins its march into the
land of the Aztecs.
Perhaps these thoughts were occupying our minds as we climbed the
bluffs for a visit to this incipient Pittsburg. The equipage did no
credit to the financial status of the iron company, as it consisted of
a superannuated express-wagon drawn by a dyspeptic white horse which
the boy who officiated as driver found no difficulty in restraining.
Two gentlemen in charge of the constructions, their visitor and two
kegs of nails comprised this precious load. The day was cloudless and
fine, albeit a Colorado "zephyr" was blowing, and the party, with
perhaps the single exception of the horse, felt in fine spirits. The
jolly superintendent, who both in face and mien reminded one of the
typical German nobleman, was overflowing with story, joke and witty
repartee. The site of the works was reached in the course of time.
Excavations were in progress for the blast-furnace and accessory
buildings, and developed a strange formation. The entire mesa seems
built up of boulders packed together with a sort of alkali clay, dry
and hard as stone, and looking, as our _distingué_ guide remarked, as
though not a drop of water had penetrated five feet from the surface
since the time of the Flood. Two blast-furnaces, each with a capacity
of five hundred tons, will be speedily built, to be followed by
rail-mills, a Bessemer steel-plant and all the accessories of vast
iron-and steel-works. With the patronage of several thousand miles of
railway already assured, and its duplication in the near future
apparently beyond doubt, the success of this daring frontier enterprise
seems far removed from the domain of conjecture.
[Illustration: OLD SI SMITH.]
All this was glowingly set forth by the courtly superintendent, who,
though but three months in the country, is already at heart a Coloradan.
That there are some things about frontier life which he likes better
than others he is free to admit. Among the few matters he would have
otherwise he gives the first place to the tough "range" or "snow-fed"
beef upon which the dwellers in this favored land must needs subsist. "I
heard a story once," said he, "about a young man, a tenderfoot, who,
after long wondering what made the beef so fearfully tough, at length
arrived at the solution, as he thought, and that quite by accident. He
was riding out with a friend, an old resident, when they chanced to come
upon a bunch of cattle. The young man's attention seemed to be
attracted, and as the idea began to dawn upon him he faced his
companion, and, pointing to an animal which bore the brand "B.C. 45,"
savagely exclaimed, 'Look there! How can you expect those antediluvians
to be anything but tough? Why don't you kill your cattle before they get
two or three times as old as Methuselah?'"
We took a long ride that afternoon under a peerless sky, with blue
mountain-ranges on one hand, whose ridges, covered with snow, seemed
like folds of satin, and on the other the great billowy Plains, bare and
brown and smooth as a carpet. The white horse, relieved of the kegs of
nails, really performed prodigies of travel, all the more appreciated
because unexpected. A stone-quarry for which we were searching was not
found, but a teamster was, who, while everything solemnly stood still
and waited, and amid the agonies of an indescribable stutter, finally
managed to enlighten us somewhat as to its whereabouts. These adventures
served to put us in excellent humor, so that when the road was found
barricaded by a barbed wire fence, it only served to give one of the
party an opportunity to air his views upon the subject--to argue, in
fact, that the barbed wire fence had been an important factor in
building up the agricultural greatness of the West. "For what
inducements," he exclaims, "does the top rail of such a fence offer to
the contemplative farmer? None, sir! His traditional laziness has been
broken up, and great material prosperity is the result."
Whatever causes have operated to produce the effect, certain it is that
the West is eminently prosperous to-day. Everywhere are seen growth,
enterprise and an aggressiveness that stops at no obstacles. Immigration
is pouring into Colorado alone at the rate of several thousands per
week. The government lands are being rapidly taken up, and the stable
industries of stock-raising and farming correspondingly extended.
Manufacturing, too, is acquiring a foothold, and many of the necessaries
of life, which now must be obtained in the East, will soon be produced
at home. The mountains are revealing untold treasures of silver and
gold, and the possibilities which may lie hid in the yet unexplored
regions act as a stimulus to crowds of hopeful prospectors. But while
Colorado is receiving her full share of the influx, a tide seems to be
setting in toward the old empire of the Aztecs, and flowing through the
natural gateway, our old Rocky-Mountain outpost. It is beginning to be
found out that the legends of fabulous wealth which have come down to us
from the olden time have much of truth in them, and mines that were
worked successively by Franciscan monks, Pueblo Indians, Jesuit priests
and Mexicans, and had suffered filling up and obliteration with every
change of proprietorship, are now being reopened; and that, too, under a
new dispensation which will ensure prosperity to the enterprise.
Spaniard and priest have long since abandoned their claim to the rich
possessions, and their doubtful sway, ever upon the verge of revolution
and offering no incentive to enterprise, has given place to one of a
different character. Under the protection of beneficent and fostering
laws this oldest portion of our Union may now be expected to reveal its
wealth of resources to energy and intelligent labor. And it may
confidently be predicted that American enterprise will not halt till it
has built up the waste places of our land, and in this case literally
made the desert to blossom as the rose. Thus gloriously does our new
civilization reclaim the errors of the past, building upon ancient ruins
the enlightened institutions of to-day, and grafting fresh vigor upon
effete races and nationalities. And now, at last, the Spanish Peaks,
those mighty ancient sentinels whose twin spires, like eyes, have
watched the slow rise and fall of stately but tottering dynasties in the
long ago, are to look out upon a different scene--a new race come in the
might of its freedom and with almost the glory of a conquering host to
redeem a waiting land from the outcome of centuries of avaricious and
bigoted misrule, and even from the thraldom of decay.
GEORGE REX BUCKMAN.
[Illustration]
LOST.
I.
I lost my treasures one by one,
Those joys the world holds dear;
Smiling I said, "To-morrow's sun
Will bring us better cheer."
For faith and love were one. Glad faith!
All loss is naught save loss of faith.
II.
My truant joys come trooping back,
And trooping friends no less;
But tears fall fast to meet the lack
Of dearer happiness.
For faith and love are two. Sad faith!
'Tis loss indeed, the loss of faith.
MARY B. DODGE.
ADAM AND EVE.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
From the day on which Adam knew that the date of Jerrem's trial was
fixed all the hope which the sight of Eve had rekindled was again
completely extinguished, and, refusing every attempt at consolation, he
threw himself into an abyss of despair a hundred-fold more dark and
bitter than before. The thought that he, captain and leader as he had
been, should stand in court confronted by his comrades and neighbors
(for Adam, ignorant of the disasters which had overtaken them, believed
half Polperro to be on their way to London), and there swear away
Jerrem's life and turn informer, was something too terrible to be dwelt
on with even outward tranquillity, and, abandoning everything which had
hitherto sustained him, he gave himself up to all the terrors of remorse
and despair. It was in vain for Reuben to reason or for Eve to plead: so
long as they could suggest no means by which this dreaded ordeal could
be averted Adam was deaf to all hope of consolation. There was but one
subject which interested him, and only on one subject could he be got to
speak, and that was the chances there still remained of Jerrem's life
being spared; and to furnish him with some food for this hope, Eve began
to loiter at the gates, talk to the warders and the turnkeys, and mingle
with the many groups who on some business or pretext were always
assembled about the yard or stood idling in the various passages with
which the prison was intersected.
One morning it came to her mind, How would it be for Adam to escape, and
so not be there to prove the accusation he had made of Jerrem having
shot the man? With scarce more thought than she had bestowed on many
another passing suggestion which seemed for the moment practical and
solid, but as she turned it round lost shape and floated into air, Eve
made the suggestion, and to her surprise found it seized on by Adam as
an inspiration. Why, he'd risk _all_ so that he escaped being set face
to face with Jerrem and his former mates. Adam had but to be assured the
strain would not be more than Eve's strength could bear before he had
adopted with joy her bare suggestion, clothed it with possibility, and
by it seemed to regain all his past energy. Could he but get away and
Jerrem's life be spared, all hope of happiness would not be over. In
some of those distant lands to which people were then beginning to go
life might begin afresh. And as his thoughts found utterance in speech
he held out his hand to Eve, and in it she laid her own; and Adam needed
nothing more to tell him that whither he went there Eve too would go.
There was no need for vows and protestations now between these two, for,
though to each the other's heart lay bare, a word of love scarce ever
crossed their lips. Life seemed too sad and time too precious to be
whiled away in pleasant speeches, and often when together, burdened by
the weight of all they had to say, yet could not talk about, the two
would sit for hours and neither speak a word. But with this proposition
of escape a new channel was given to them, and as they discussed their
different plans the dreadful shadow which at times had hung between them
was rolled away and lifted out of sight.
Inspired by the prospect of action, of doing something, Adam roused
himself to master all the difficulties: his old foresight and caution
began to revive, and the project, which had on one day looked like a
desperate extremity, grew by the end of a week into a well-arranged plan
whose success seemed more than possible. Filled with anxiety for Eve,
Reuben gave no hearty sanction to the experiment: besides which, he felt
certain that now neither Adam's absence nor presence would in any way
affect Jerrem's fate; added to which, if the matter was detected it
might go hard with Adam himself. But his arguments proved nothing to
Eve, who, confident of success, only demanded from him the promise of
secrecy; after which, she thought, as some questions might be put to
him, the less he knew the less he would have to conceal.
Although a prisoner, inasmuch as liberty was denied to him, Adam was in
no way subjected to that strict surveillance to which those who had
broken the law were supposed to be submitted. It was of his own free
will that he disregarded the various privileges which lay open to him:
others in his place would have frequented the passages, hung about the
yards and grown familiar with the tap, where spirits were openly bought
and sold. Money could do much in those days of lax discipline, and the
man who could pay and could give need have very few wants unsatisfied.
But Adam's only desire was to be left undisturbed and alone; and as this
entailed no undue amount of trouble after their first curiosity had been
satisfied, it was not thought necessary to deny him this privilege. From
constantly going in and out, most of the officials inside the prison
knew Eve, while to but very few was Adam's face familiar; and it was on
this fact, aided by the knowledge that through favor of a gratuity
friends were frequently permitted to outstay their usual hour, that most
of their hopes rested. Each day she came Eve brought some portion of the
disguise which was to be adopted; and then, having learnt from Reuben
that the Mary Jane had arrived and was lying at the wharf unloading, not
knowing what better to do, they decided that she should go to Captain
Triggs and ask him, in case Adam could get away, whether he would let
him come on board his vessel and give him shelter there below.
"Wa-al, no," said Triggs, "I woan't do that, 'cos they as I'se got here
might smell un out; but I'll tell 'ee what: I knaws a chap as has in
many ways bin beholden to me 'fore now, and I reckon if I gives un the
cue he'll do the job for 'ee."
"But do you think he's to be trusted?" Eve asked.
"Wa-al, that rests on how small a part you'm foaced to tell un of,"
said Triggs, "and how much you makes it warth his while. I'm blamed if
I'd go bail for un myself, but that won't be no odds agen' Adam's goin':
'tis just the place for he. 'T 'ud niver do to car'y a pitch-pot down
and set un in the midst o' they who couldn't bide his stink."
"And the crew?" said Eve, wincing under Captain Triggs's figurative
language.
"Awh, the crew's right enuf--a set o' gashly, smudge-faced raskils
that's near half Maltee and t' other Lascar Injuns. Any jail-bird that
flies their way 'ull find they's all of a feather. But here," he added,
puzzled by the event: "how's this that you'm still mixed up with Adam
so? I thought 'twas all 'long o' you and Reuben May that the Lottery's
landin' got blowed about?"
Eve shook her head. "Be sure," she said, "'twas never in me to do Adam
any harm."
"And you'm goin' to stick to un now through thick and thin? 'Twill niver
do for un, ye knaw, to set his foot on Cornish ground agen."
"He knows that," said Eve; "and if he gets away we shall be married and
go across the seas to some new part, where no one can tell what brought
us from our home."
Triggs gave a significant nod. "Lord!" he exclaimed, "but that's a poor
lookout for such a bowerly maid as you be! Wouldn't it be better for 'ee
to stick by yer friends 'bout here than--"
"I haven't got any friends," interrupted Eve promptly, "excepting it's
Adam and Joan and Uncle Zebedee."
"Ah, poor old Zebedee!" sighed Triggs: "'tis all dickey with he. The day
I started I see Sammy Tucker to Fowey, and he was tellin' that th' ole
chap was gone reg'lar tottlin'-like, and can't tell thickee fra that;
and as for Joan Hocken, he says you wouldn't knaw her for the same. And
they's tooked poor foolish Jonathan, as is more mazed than iver, to live
with 'em; and Mrs. Tucker, as used to haggle with everybody so, tends on
'em all hand and foot, and her's given up praichin' 'bout religion and
that, and 's turned quite neighborly, and, so long as her can save her
daughter, thinks nothin's too hot nor too heavy."
"Dear Joan!" sighed Eve: "she's started by the coach on her way up here
now."
"Whether she hath or no!" exclaimed Triggs in surprise. "Then take my
word they's heerd that Jerrem's to be hanged, and Joan's comin' up to be
all ready to hand for 't."
"No, not that," groaned Eve, for at the mere mention of the word the
vague dread seemed to shape itself into a certainty. "Oh, Captain
Triggs, don't say that if Adam gets off you don't think Jerrem's life
will be spared."
"Wa-al, my poor maid, us must hope so," said the compassionate captain;
"but 'tis the warst o' they doin's that sooner or later th' endin, of
'em must come. 'Twould never do to let 'em prosper allays," he added
with impressive certainty, "or where 'ud be the use o' parsons praichin'
up 'bout heaven and hell? Why, now, us likes good liquor cheap to Fowey;
and wance 'pon a time us had it too, but that ha'n't bin for twenty
year. Our day's gone by, and so 'ull theirs be now; and th' excise 'ull
come, and revenoos 'ull settle down, and folks be foaced to take to
lousterin' for the bit o' bread they ates, and live quiet and paceable,
as good neighbors should. So try and take heart; and if so be that Adam
can give they Bailey chaps the go-by, tell un to come 'longs here, and
us 'ull be odds with any o' they that happens to be follerin' to his
heels."
Charmed with this friendly promise, Eve said "Good-bye," leaving the
captain puzzled with speculations on women and the many curious
contradictions which seem to influence their actions; while, the hour
being now too late to return to the prison, she took her way to her own
room, thinking it best to begin the preparations which in case of Adam's
escape and any sudden departure it would be necessary to have completed.
Perhaps it was her interview with Captain Triggs, the sight of the wharf
and the ships, which took her thoughts back and made them bridge the
gulf which divided her past life from her present self. Could the girl
she saw in that shadowy past--headstrong, confident, impatient of
suffering and unsympathetic with sorrow--be this same Eve who walked
along with all hope and thought of self merged in another's happiness
and welfare? Where was the vanity, where were the tricks and coquetries,
passports to that ideal existence after which in the old days she had so
thirsted? Trampled out of sight and choked beneath the fair blossoms of
a higher life, which, as in many a human nature, had needed sorrow,
humiliation and a great watering of tears before there could spring
forth the flowers for a fruit which should one day ripen into great
perfection.
No wonder, then, that she should be shaken by a doubt of her own
identity; and having reached her room she paused upon the threshold and
looked around as if to satisfy herself by all those silent witnesses
which made it truth. There was the chair in which she had so often sat
plying her needle with such tardy grace while her impatient thoughts did
battle with the humdrum, narrow life she led. How she had beat against
the fate which seemed to promise naught but that dull round of
commonplace events in which her early years had passed away! How as a
gall and fret had come the thought of Reuben's proffered love, because
it shadowed forth the level of respectable routine, the life she then
most dreaded! To be courted and sought after, to call forth love,
jealousy and despair, to be looked up to, thought well of, praised,
admired,--these were the delights she had craved and these the longings
she had had granted. And a sigh from the depths of that chastened heart
rendered the bitter tribute paid by all to satiated vanity and outlived
desire. The dingy walls, the ill-assorted furniture (her mother's pride
in which had sometimes vexed her, sometimes made her laugh) now looked
like childhood's friends, whose faces stamp themselves upon our inmost
hearts. The light no longer seemed obscure, the room no longer gloomy,
for each thing in it now was flooded by the tender light of
memory--that wondrous gift to man which those who only sail along life's
summer sea can never know in all the heights and depths revealed to
storm-tossed hearts.
"What! you've come back?" a voice said in her ear; and looking round Eve
saw it was Reuben, who had entered unperceived. "There's nothing fresh
gone wrong?" he asked.
"No, nothing;" but the sad smile she tried to give him welcome with was
so akin to tears that Reuben's face assumed a look of doubt. "'Tis only
that I'm thinking how I'm changed from what I was," said Eve. "Why, once
I couldn't bear this room and all the things about it; but now--Oh,
Reuben, my heart seems like to break because perhaps 'twill soon now
come to saying good-bye to all of it for ever."
Reuben winced: "You're fixed to go, then?"
"Yes, where Adam goes I shall go too: don't you think I should? What
else is left for me to do?"
"You feel, then, you'd be happy--off with him--away from all
and--everybody else?"
"Happy! Should I be happy to know he'd gone alone--happy to know I'd
driven him away to some place where I wouldn't go myself?" and Eve
paused, shaking her head before she added, "If he can make another start
in life--try and begin again--"
"You ought to help him to it," said Reuben promptly: "that's very plain
to see. Oh, Eve, do you mind the times when you and me have talked of
what we'd like to do--how, never satisfied with what went on around, we
wanted to be altogether such as some of those we'd heard and read about?
The way seems almost opened up to you, but what shall I do when all this
is over and you are gone away? I can't go back and stick to trade again,
working for nothing more but putting victuals in myself."
For a moment Eve did not speak: then, with a sudden movement, she
turned, saying to Reuben, "There's something that before our lives are
at any moment parted I've wanted to say to you, Reuben. 'Tis that until
now, this time while we've been all together here, I've never known what
your worth is--what you would be to any one who'd got the heart to value
what you'd give. Of late it has often seemed that I should think but
very small of one who'd had the chance of your liking and yet didn't
know the proper value of such goodness."
Reuben gave a look of disavowal, and Eve continued, adding with a little
hesitation, "You mustn't think it strange in me for saying this. I
couldn't tell you if you didn't know how everything lies between Adam
and myself; but ever since this trouble's come about all my thoughts
seem changed, and people look quite different now to what they did
before; and, most of all, I've learnt to know the friend I've got, and
always had, in you, Reuben."
Reuben did not answer for a moment. He seemed struggling to keep back
something he was yet prompted to speak of. "Eve," he said at length,
"don't think that I've not made mistakes, and great ones too. When first
I fought to battle down my leaning toward you, why was it? Not because
of doubting that 'twould ever be returned, but 'cos I held myself too
good a chap in all my thoughts and ways to be taken up with such a
butterfly concern as I took you to be. I'd never have believed then that
you'd have acted as I've seen you act. I thought that love with you
meant who could give you the finest clothes to wear and let you rule the
roast the easiest; but you have shown me that you are made of better
woman's stuff than that. And, after all, a man thinks better of himself
for mounting high than stooping to pick up what can be had for asking
any day."
"No, no, Reuben: your good opinion is more than I deserve," said Eve,
her memory stinging her with past recollections. "If you want to see a
dear, kind-hearted, unselfish girl, wait until Joan comes. I do so hope
that you will take to her! I think you will, after what you've been to
Jerrem and to Adam. I want you and Joan to like each other."
"I don't think there's much fear of that," said Reuben. "Jerrem's spoke
so freely about Joan that I seem to know her before ever having seen
her. Let me see: her mind was at one time set on Adam, wasn't it?"
"I think that she was very fond of Adam," said Eve, coloring: "and, so
far as that goes, I don't know that there is any difference now. I'm
sure she'd lay her life down if it would do him good."
"Poor soul!" sighed Reuben, drawn by a friendly feeling to sympathize
with Joan's unlucky love. "Her cup's been full, and no mistake, of
late."
"Did Jerrem seem to feel it much that Uncle Zebedee 'd been took so
strange?" asked Eve.
"I didn't tell him more than I could help," said Reuben. "As much as
possible I made it out to him that for the old man to come to London
wouldn't be safe, and the fear of that seemed to pacify him at once."
"I haven't spoken of it to Adam yet," said Eve. "He hasn't asked about
his coming, so I thought I'd leave the telling till another time. His
mind seems set on nothing but getting off, and by it setting Jerrem
free."
But Reuben made no rejoinder to the questioning tone of Eve's words, and
after a few minutes' pause he waived the subject by reverting to the
description which Eve had given of Joan, so that, in case he had to meet
her alone, he might recognize her without difficulty. Eve repeated the
description, dwelling with loving preciseness on the various features
and points by which Joan might be known; and then Reuben, having some
work to do, got up to say good-bye.
"Good-bye," said Eve, holding out her hand--"good-bye. Every time I say
it now I seem to wonder if 'tis to be good-bye indeed."
"Why, no: in any way, you'd wait until the trial was over?"
"Yes, I forgot: of course we should."
"Well, then, do you think I'd let you go without a word? Ah, Eve, no!
Whatever others are, nobody's yet pushed you from your place, nor ever
will so long as my life lasts."